Why, I wish that strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals,
and gall, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind,
that gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man’s heart
and becomes a thing sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey.’

– Homer, The Illiad (18. 107-110)

In the depths of Achilleus’s dream space, it was known his hatred was too well hatred for himself. And the indifferent view I have of my window was nothing but grey and white noise of a path that inversed its existence after spring has left. I was told to surface at my own pace, but the abyss stared into my back and I’ve broke the water surface with my left ventricle plague by embolism. When will kindred spirits decode the cityscape through my window? When will one particular amalgam of universe dust decode the cityscape through my window?

What is glory if she chose to be happy, like diamonds in the sky?

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

– Mad Girl’s Love Song, Sylvia Path

I think it all seeps through, like coming into the room soaked in summer thunder. I step through the wood boards as plant oils and the chemical compound geosmin vaporizes with my footsteps.

Escarpment Messier 42

That moment I knew it was a dream my courage intensified.

The rooms were separated by great glass slabs. I knew the place, but I did not know the setting and did not particularly care.

Perhaps the ground was soft, full of warm and old dust. The end of the room was not just dark, but it had a dark watery reflection etched across its wooden walls. It was a quiet scary dark place.

It was a safe and quiet scary dark place.

I couldn’t seem to plant my feet firmly on the floor as I’ve reached the end corner of the room. There was a man standing near one of the glass panels. He was wearing a heavily padded suit with a space helmet, looking out to where I know would be the view from a 11 story-floor.

Instead it was the universe as we know it. Like looking out from a space shuttle window when drifting past a nebula, nursery of galaxies. The man and the surroundings were so surreal, still I took his hand as he showed me the view outside and beckoned me to peer down. I saw orange ladders and titanium tile fitted surface that prompted me to run my bare feet upon them, allowing the cold wind (that only existed in space dreams) filled with star dust to flow through my pores, my veins and hair. For some reason I led him away from the window glass, towards the dark corner of the room I had set out to reach and promised him rapture.

I seem to have disappointed him.

Behind him starlight glittered, the nebula shifted between shades of purple and pink. And behind me the diffuse reflection of dark matter glowed silently.

Orion Nebula

Cloud Speed

I think she has been hiding something all these years.

She has a twin, hauntingly real. She is warm when she is defensive, soft when she swallowed pain, but she is not young. She hopes like silent sun rays.

The faceless features she clutched between her palms in the dark, he was bright like her too. It was only her who can see his light. Where is your face?

The rays were not blinding but she smells the dew spreading down her eyes in the dark. Heart on cloud speed and he shimmers like an unstable star, far but close enough for you to witness his existence.

It is a thin gold band, there will be white laces. There will be no one in the room but one shimmering star.

But where is your face?

Press down

on and across

the arch

with her thumb.

The angle traced into memory. They shared one same trance, anytime and everywhere.

So there will be windows, garden, kitchen, little hers and little hims.

Angelina Jolie’s Public-Image Turnaround

Strong admiration for this woman.


It might be hard to believe, but the Angelina Jolie who now makes headlines for her work on global humanitarian causes is the same Angelina Jolie who, only a dozen years ago, was making headlines for her tattoos, her sexuality and a very intense Oscars-night kiss with her brother.

This morning, Jolie may have made the leap to that sparsely-populated realm of stars who are almost above reproach when she announced via an op-ed in the New York Times that she underwent a preventative double mastectomy due to positive tests for a gene linked to breast and ovarian cancers. Hers is a story of a rebellious Goth-friendly actress, known for her sexual escapades and what might be called home-wrecking by fans of Jennifer Aniston, who became an uber-mother with six children—and a celebrity with enough policy smarts to earn a speaking spot at the Council on Foreign Relations. And now it seems…

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